Chapter One

Late at night, the tranquility of the second floor of the manor was shut out by the heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains. I sat in Lily's room; the floor was cold, but I couldn't feel it. A photograph of her at age three, frozen in the dim light of the wall lamp, showed her giggling at the camera, two front teeth chipped—her proudest feature.

On the bedside table sat the old hand-cranked music box, its spring slightly rusted, its melody carrying a dull, grating quality, like a mournful cry trapped in time. Today marked the 365th day since she left.

I pulled the silver urn from my inner pocket; it wasn't large, its cold metal pressed against my heart like an unhealed wound. I gently wiped away the dust with my fingertips, my fingertips trembling slightly. "Don't be afraid, Lily," I whispered in the deathly silence, my voice hoarse, "Daddy's here; no one will wake you again."

Downstairs, the noise seeped into the room through the ventilation ducts—Victoria's victory celebration. The clinking of glasses and the wanton laughter of men and women smacked my ears like countless tiny insects. On this day that should have been one of reflection, those sounds seemed particularly menacing.

The door opened, and Victoria appeared in the doorway, dressed in a blood-red dress. She held a half-empty glass of champagne in her hand, her brow furrowing as she looked at me crouching in the shadows, a flash of undisguised disgust in her eyes, as if she were looking at an old, obstructive, and moldy piece of furniture.

“Arthur, don’t be like a ghost.” She took a sip of her drink, her lips, painted with expensive lipstick, curving into a cold, aloof smile. “How long have you been hanging up there with that deadpan expression? Downstairs are all West Coast tycoons. Even if it’s just to maintain the ‘respectability’ my husband should have, you should at least show your face.”

I didn’t look up at her, but carefully wrapped the music box in a soft cloth. I wanted to take it to the side hall downstairs, where there was a memorial corner I had personally arranged. I wanted to place a bouquet of her favorite white lilies there on the anniversary of her death.

The banquet hall was dappled with light and shadow. Victoria's lover, Leon, was nonchalantly arm-in-arm with her, loudly discussing his latest so-called action movie. This gigolo, who rose to fame through hype, deliberately raised his voice as I descended the stairs, his arrogant smile appearing particularly greasy under the chandelier.

He was clearly either off some kind of illicit drug or completely drunk; swaying, he leaned closer, stared at the worn-out cloth bag in my hand, and snatched it away.

"Look at this," Leon sniffed, feigning disgust, and loudly mocked the surrounding celebrities, "This is your brat's 'heirloom'? It smells musty and damp! I knew this house had a bad influence lately."

All eyes turned to him, eyes full of amusement.

Leon slammed the music box onto the expensive marble floor. The sound of gears snapping was like bones breaking, parts flying everywhere. Not content with that, he deliberately lifted his custom-made leather shoes and crushed the base of the music box, then kicked over the small memorial table beside it.

Lily's photo frame fell to the ground with a "crack," the glass shattering into a spiderweb pattern, her smiling face torn to pieces.

"Oh, sorry," Leon deliberately brushed aside the fragments of the photo with his toe, making a harsh scraping sound, "I accidentally bumped into some 'trash,' did I get your carpet dirty, Victoria?"

He turned to Victoria, looking at her obsequiously like a dog wagging its tail.

Victoria merely glanced at the mess on the floor. She put down her wine glass and said in a cold, commanding tone, "Leon's had too much to drink. He's a straightforward man, don't come here looking for trouble. Arthur, take this junk back to your room, don't let the guests laugh at you."

Looking for trouble.

I crouched down, my fingertips touching the shards of glass that cut my hand. I picked up the photograph, and at the point where the cracks met, I seemed to hear Lily's last sobs. I slowly rose, walked past the arrogantly laughing Leon, and headed straight for the bar.

The air seemed to freeze. Leon was still sneering behind me: "What, looking for a drink? That's right, that's what you should be doing..."

I grabbed the priceless bottle of whiskey, and a split second before he turned around, I smashed the heavy bottom of the bottle against his temple.

"Bang—!"

The bottle shattered, amber liquor mixed with bright red blood splattering out. Leon didn't even have time to scream before he collapsed to the ground like a dead pig, half his face torn open, glass shards embedded in his flesh, dripping down his temples mixed with the liquor.

The hall was deathly silent.

I didn't look at anyone's expression. I calmly slipped the platinum wedding ring off my finger, the shackles she had imposed on me for the sake of so-called "matching social status." I slammed the ring onto the table in front of Victoria, it spun a few times on the polished marble, and stopped at the tip of her finger.

I took off my overly expensive, impeccably tailored suit—the very thing that made me feel nauseous. I tossed it onto the wine-stained red carpet, leaving only a black T-shirt. Clutching the shattered photograph and the urn tightly to my chest, I turned and, amidst the astonished and disdainful gazes of the celebrities, strode towards the door.

From beginning to end, I uttered not a single word. Because with the dead, words are unnecessary.